


city of lights

by lizamarri



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alastair Carstairs is Secretly Nice, Fluff, M/M, Thomas Lightwood is Nervous with a Crush, aka: what happened in paris, lightstairs - Freeform, the parisian interlude, they're both Slightly Nervous and Very Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizamarri/pseuds/lizamarri
Summary: “How do you like Madrid?”The question in and of itself sounded like it should be stilted and stiffly polite, but the way Alastair said it was with a smoothness like heated silk. Thomas found himself slightly shocked at the ease.“It’s beautiful,” he admitted, with a shy glance down. “The colors, the buildings… the food, especially. It all tastes so different.”Alastair’s dark eyes slid to his, and a sliver of mischief carved through them. “You should get used to it, Lightwood. Not everywhere is as bland as England; most countries’ food has flavor.”*An interlude of Thomas and Alastair's time in Paris.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs & Thomas Lightwood, Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	city of lights

**Author's Note:**

> is this me projecting fluff while waiting for my order of chain of iron to arrive? yes. enjoy 1k of when everything was slightly more okay with these idiots.

Thomas didn’t know what he expected from Alastair Carstairs.

In all honesty, he supposed he’d expected the boy he’d known during his short time at the Shadowhunter Academy. A cruel bully, to be frank. A sneer always on his lips, and a stinging insult on his tongue. 

But this Alastair…

This Alastair had sun glinting off his dark hair, this Alastair had life in his eyes and an occasional smile on his lips that he tried to tamper down but was never fully successful. 

And Thomas didn’t know what to do with this Alastair. This Alastair was like no man he’d ever known; he wasn’t even a combination of the Merry Thieves. He had none of Christopher's burning need to discover and create, none of Mathew’s dirty wit or astonishing dress, none of James’s reckless bravery or strengthening presence. 

He was just Alastair. The  _ real _ Alastair, something more than the snobbish, two-dimensional Dickens villain he had known at the Shadowhunter Academy. This Alastair seemed as likely to make fun of him for his (now enormous) height then the Alastair of the Shadowhunter Academy might throw him a smile.

Thomas liked this Alastair. 

It’s true that he didn't know what to expect, when Alastair asked him to go with him to the Louvre after running into each other in the bookshop Matthew suggested to him. He couldn’t believe it was real when he’d seen Alastair there, it was like catching a glimpse of a memory in your mind you had not thought of in years. The whole moment was as startling as a ghost.

He’d thought about dismissing him, inventing a made-up appointment, an excuse, but he hadn’t. And he couldn’t have been happier. 

Instead of wandering around Paris alone, he was wandering around Paris with Alastair Carstairs. And here he was, sitting at a Parisian bistro across from someone that, at one point, he may have considered the Merry Thieves' greatest enemy.

After ordering something with a name that tied his tongue in knots (though Alastair could pronounce it perfectly with an even more immaculate accent) they had waited together. Thomas watched Alastair’s long fingernails drum on the table, while Alastair had let his dark eyes slide across the cityscape around them, slowly taking in the passerby and buildings like he was committing it all to memory. 

Thomas yearned to ask Alastair what he was doing in Paris. Judging by their trips to the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, he was not on a travel year here, as he would have visited those sights already. This sounded like one day in the city, or maybe two.

Why would Alastair Carstairs be in  _ Paris? _

But he held his tongue, still insecure in Carstairs’s presence and afraid to push this tentative, maybe-acquaintanceship too far. So, he said nothing.

Surprisingly, it was Alastair who spoke first. 

“How do you like Madrid?”

The question in and of itself sounded like it should be stilted and stiffly polite, but the way Alastair said it was with a smoothness like heated silk. Thomas found himself slightly shocked at the ease.

“It’s beautiful,” he admitted, with a shy glance down. “The colors, the buildings… the food, especially. It all tastes so different.”

Alastair’s dark eyes slid to his, and a sliver of mischief carved through them. “You should get used to it, Lightwood. Not everywhere is as bland as England; most countries’ food has  _ flavor.” _

Thomas choked on his smile, having not expected the playful lilt to Alastair’s tone. He finally let his smile free, keeping it small and constrained nevertheless. He wasn’t ready to let his guard down fully around the other boy. Not yet.

Thomas folded his hand together, rubbing the soft tendon between his thumb and pointer finger on his left hand. “I chose my weapon, too. A  _ balos. _ It’s quite like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Alastair tilted his head, as if he was adding it all up. “A  _ balos…” _ He trails off. “Uncommon.”

“I know.”

“Who would teach you?”

Thomas shrugged. He busied himself with his hands so as to not have to look into Alastair’s eyes. “Myself. James helps. He has an alarming array of weapons knowledge.”

As the mention of James’s name, Alastair’s expression soured. Quickly, in a hope to avoid any stress, Thomas changed the subject.

“And you? Any signature weapon?”

At that, Alastair’s soft smile came back. “A spear,” he said, all the tightness gone from his face. “Chinese spear. It’s quite versatile, with the agility of a sword and the range of a bow. I got the idea from--” He cut himself off. “I apologize. I did not mean to ramble.”

“I don’t mind,” Thomas hastened to say. “There are not many Chinese weapons in the Institute, and I did not spend much time at the Academy. Tell me more.”

Alastair’s smile broadened a fraction of an inch. His eyes widened as well, as though he was surprised Thomas was still interested. 

Their food arrived, after a few minutes and they almost didn’t notice from how deep in conversation they were. The conversation soon left spears to other weapons, then famous weapons, their places in history (Cortana’s quest with Charlamange was mentioned), history in general, the Renaissance era, the art accompanied by it, then art… 

He’d never found someone so easy to talk to. Alastair was exceptional at listening, yet also excellent at filling the silence. He’d never met someone like that; usually one was a listener or a speaker. For instance, Matthew was a speaker and Christopher was a listener. Thomas himself tended to fringe the lines of both categories, but usually assumed the role of listener when it came to his friends’ antics. 

It felt nice to speak with someone who listened so attentively back.

They talked late into the night, so late the bistro closed around them, the rest of the patrons filed out, and soon they were ushered out as well. 

“Come find me here,” Alastair said, waving to the building next to them, it’s sign half wreathed in shadow. “Tomorrow.”

Thomas tilted his head, taking the broad sign of the Théȃtre. “For what?”

The glint in Alastair’s eyes shined like a far-away star. “A surprise.”

He told Thomas of the time, and gave him something that could almost be a smile before walking away, his retreating figure bathed in the gentle light of Parisian street lamps. 

Thomas might lie about this if one asked him, but to himself he could not. 

He watched Alastair throughout his whole departure.

**Author's Note:**

> WHO ELSE IS SO READY FOR CHAIN OF IRON RAISE YOUR HANDS


End file.
